


herein, i will be more myself.

by jemejem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Nathan is a terrible king, Prince and the Pauper AU, Royalty AU, and Riko is a terrible fiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 09:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21224051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemejem/pseuds/jemejem
Summary: Neil is a simpleton, scurrying around the dark alleyways of the Palmetto slums and dallying with tavern owners in the moonlight.Nathaniel is a burdened prince, an heir to a kingdom governed by his father's hateful, ironfisted rule.What happens when the two must become one again?





	herein, i will be more myself.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: mild (VERY mild) consensual sexual content, various noncon references, also nathan is a terribly violent man

Once upon a time, there was a fine young prince by the name of Nathaniel Abram Wesninski. Little did those of the royal courts, neighbouring kingdoms, or even his relatives know, that by night, the young man—almost eighteen and on the precipice of maturation—went by the name Neil Josten. 

A commoner’s name, indeed. He would flip up his hood and clamber down the tresses that crawled up the brick faces of his tower, creeping through his father’s roses as he snuck towards the palace’s boundaries and escaped into the shadows. 

It was incredibly dangerous behaviour, of course: a Crown Prince would earn high amounts of ransom money, especially as he was his father’s only living heir. He wasn’t sure that he wanted the title of the Wesninski Prince, but it was bestowed on him from birth, and carved into his skin every day that he lived as the target of his father’s ire. 

If only his mother was still alive to shield him from his father’s cruelty, but fate had her sickened by disease till she rotted away in her bed. Nathaniel had been merely ten years old. 

It was the fiery insubordination she always nurtured in her heart that had him act in defiance of his father. It was the adrenaline that coursed through his veins as he escaped the castle’s grounds that liberated him, and he always found himself sprinting down the hill, cape frolicking in the breeze. 

If he was brave enough, he’d turn around and never look back. His fear of his father was too great, and his ability to survive on his own too weak for him to consider escaping for good. He could just imagine the fury scrawled across his father’s brow. The scars across his back always ached when he imagined the way his father would react when he knew of Nathaniel’s behaviour. 

When he was outside the palace walls, he did his best to detach himself from that aspect of his life: he was no longer Prince Nathaniel. He was just Neil Josten, the peasant. Neil Josten, the common thief, the rapscallion, the nobody. He was whoever he wanted to be, and that was the greatest gift that the kingdom could grant him. 

Of his acquaintances, of whom he’d met whilst snooping around the Palmetto slums, Andrew was certainly his favourite. He manned the bar of a decrepit tavern, aptly named Eden’s. His brother studied medicine with the local apothecaries, Abigail Winfield and Katelyn Mellark, whilst his cousin ran a small orphanage on the edge of Palmetto with his husband. Neil thought Andrew was lonely, but the man seemed averse to any form of socialisation, including Neil’s. 

Neil, often overwhelmed by the overbearing nature of Eden’s patrons, found comfort in the quiet aura Andrew maintained, watching him smoke his pipe when he wished for a moment away from the tavern’s hustle. 

Sometimes he thought about telling Andrew the truth. Telling Andrew who his father truly was. The man valued honesty above anything else, so Neil feared if he ever revealed his dishonesty, Andrew would never look him in the eye again. There would never be the secrets, exchanged under a blanket of stars, or the warmth found in a tin roof after the sun had set on a summer evening when they laid down and gazed at the lingering clouds. 

Andrew was incredibly intelligent, worthy of a scholarly position within the village’s archives. Neil wanted that for him: he wanted Andrew to excel and live comfortably. After all his troubles, it was most deserved. 

Escaping the palace’s boundaries gave Neil a distinct appreciation of how he could change the way his father ruled Baltimore when he finally received the crown, but that would only happen if he didn’t get himself killed in the process. Sometimes that was hard to remember, but creeping through the slums made it all the more prevalent.

Neil clambered up onto the bales of hay on a nearby stable, carefully leaping from rooftop to rooftop till he arrived at the tavern. The lip of the thatched roof allowed him to flip down onto Andrew’s balcony—he lived above his workplace, as most did—and enter via the open window. He was careful not to bruise the soft petals of the chrysanthemums under the windowsill and checked that his boots were not dirty before he went and tracked mud all over Andrew’s rug. With the matches beside Andrew’s straw mattress, Neil lit the oil lamps within the man’s room and let himself be comforted by the familiar glow. 

The first time Neil and Andrew met, Andrew had whacked him across the stomach with a fire poker. Neil had fallen to his knees, wheezing as his fingers curled against the cobbled stone underneath him. 

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t shove this through your eye. What are you doing sneaking around, shadow?”

“Fuck you.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “There are worse things than death.”

Andrew had tugged down Neil’s hood, curling his fingers into Neil’s hair and tugging his head up to look at him. Neil had once feared he’d be recognised, but his father hadn’t let Neil be seen in public since his mother had died eight years prior. 

“You’re not wrong,” Andrew had said resignedly. He’d shoved Neil back to the ground and stalked away, glancing over his shoulder only once to say, “Cross me and you’ll regret it.”

Neil smiled. It was a fond memory now. 

From his messenger bag he withdrew a soft scarf that he had requested to be made, hanging it over the post of Andrew’s bed frame. He also gifted the man with a book he had finished with recently, knowing Andrew loved to read but would never admit to such a foolish endeavour. Neil tugged off his gloves and settled atop of the stool in the warmest corner, the furnace that heated the tavern situated directly beneath him. As November progressed, the weather grew harsher. His lips were wind bitten and his cheeks rouged. 

It was also drawing close to Andrew’s birthday. Neil wished he could give more than a scarf and a novel, but were he to take anything more noticeable than a few missing objects, his father would surely discover his endeavours. 

It was already late into the evening when Neil had arrived in Andrew’s room, but it was a little while till the man appeared. Neil sat straighter when the latch on the heavy oaken door shifted, Andrew stepping through in his heavy boots and laced canvas blouse. 

“Evening,” Neil said, smiling. 

Andrew glared at him, locking the door behind him. Neil simply laughed. 

“It is good to see you, too.” Neil stood, offering his hand as Andrew drew closer. 

“You have been rather absent.” His voice was slightly raw with a lack of use. Neil knew Andrew didn’t talk often, if at all. “I suspected you had gone and finally found yourself arrested for your ludicrous stunts.”

“Nonsense,” he said, easily. “They cannot catch me.” 

Andrew took his wrist and levelled him with a gaze so dismissive, so scathing that Neil simply had to laugh again. He  _ had  _ missed their camaraderie during the past few days, but Neil hadn’t a choice. The preparations for his Bildungsroman Ball were increasingly demanding, and as the object of that ball, Neil was required to oversee every aspect of its formation. 

His father wanted it to be the most fabulous party. The Moriyama and Knox princes would be in attendance: his father wanted Neil to marry for status and the security of his kingdom. Neil knew that he was as good as betrothed to Riko Moriyama, so the whole pretence of the ball was a waste of time in the first place. 

It seemed as though Andrew read what was on Neil’s conscience, cocking his head to the side as he picked up the new scarf and pressed his nose to the fresh weavings. When he opened his eyes again, he said: “The Prince’s Bildungsroman Ball is rather soon.”

Neil froze, hands curled to fists in the loose fabric of his trousers. “Yes?” 

“Are you attending?”

Neil breathed slowly out of his nose with relief. “I—I wasn’t planning on attending—“

“Neither,” Andrew murmured. “It seems, however, that my cousin refuses to spare me the trouble. I was wondering, perhaps, if you would come with me.”

“As a favour?” Neil asked, voice weak. “Or in exchange for a truth?”

Andrew’s gaze flit up to meet his own. “No.” He cleared his throat. “As a…friend.”

“A friend?” Neil echoed. 

“Partner,” Andrew offered. 

“Oh.” Neil ducked his head. “I—I didn’t know that was something you—wanted. From me.”

“If that is too forward of me, do tell.” Any hint of vulnerability was hidden behind a thick glaze of apathy. “I refuse to coerce you into anything that you aren’t explicitly comfortable with—“

“No, Andrew, I would love to.” Neil said, voice softer than he knew he was capable of. He stood and walked briskly to pull the scarf from where it was wound in Andrew’s tight fists. “But I—I won’t be in town for the ceremony. I have urgent business in Evermore.”

Andrew’s head snapped up, gaze boring into Neil’s own. “What business? No one crosses the Evermore threshold if they can avoid it.”

“I know,” Neil said, truthful. It hurt to lie otherwise, but if Andrew knew the truth, he wouldn’t gently hold Neil’s wrists like he was now, or let concern momentarily wash over him at the mention of the treacherous mountain kingdom. Neil didn’t want to lose that. Not yet. “But it’s necessary. I have debts to pay, Andrew.”

“But you’ll come back?” He gently pressed his fingers to the soft skin of Neil’s cheek. Neil tilted his head and pressed a small kiss on the inside of Andrew’s wrist. Andrew’s eyes widened with surprise: Neil had never been exactly forthcoming about his affections. 

“I promise,” Neil said. And perhaps Andrew wouldn’t want him to return when he knew the truth, but Neil would always be there for Andrew. Would always come to his side when he asked. 

Something seemed to settle between them. 

Perhaps in the future he would remember his childish endeavours as Neil Josten fondly. As it was, the thought of leaving behind this identity he had crafted caused an ache in his chest so profound that he almost felt as though he should sit down. 

“You’ve lost all your colour,” Andrew commented. “What on  _ earth  _ are you up to, Neil?”

“It’s nothing, truly,” Neil insisted, letting Andrew guide him to the edge of his soft mattress. He wished he could lie down beside the young man and sleep with their fingers intertwined. “I’ve been feeling perfectly adequate, Andrew.”

“You should let me bring you to Aaron,” Andrew suggested. 

Neil shook his head. “I—I cannot. I cannot mingle with any of your acquaintances or your family, it is not safe. You know this.”

Andrew sighed. He did know this: Neil had confessed his ‘wanted’ status, due to his parent’s involvement in the mysterious poisoning of Queen Mary Wesninski. That was what he’d told Andrew, and it wasn’t like it was untrue. His father  _ had _ poisoned his mother until she’d wasted away, but no one was allowed to know that. 

It was a mistake on Neil’s part that they’d run into each other behind Andrew’s tavern in the first place, and it was Neil’s intrepid curiosity about the man that’d drawn him back time and time again. He knew of many of the tavern’s frequent guests, other than Andrew’s cousin and twin: the Wild-Boyds, Allison Reynolds, the town’s favoured seamstress, and even Renee Walker, the angelic headmistress of the town’s little school. 

In another life he would settle for a hearty meal alongside them as friends, as family, by Andrew’s side and within the warm confines of Eden’s tavern.

He let himself lean against Andrew’s shoulder, observing the curve of the man’s sleeve as it cuffed just above his elbow: skin-tight woollen sleeves covered his forearms and held thin and heartily crafted knives from the town’s best blacksmith, David Wymack. Neil hesitantly brushed his fingers over the curve of Andrew’s thumb, till his palm opened and Andrew’s fingers intertwined with his own. 

It was like the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. He sighed. 

“I want you to stay,” Andrew said, a truth offered like blades against his wrists. Andrew did not want freely. This was an open admission of his vulnerabilities, and Neil smiled sadly down at their intertwined hands. 

“I would if I could,” he said, just as honest. 

Andrew looked out the window Neil had clambered through, nodding stiffly.

Neil let his eyes fall close. He would miss this. 

*

“Stand straighter,” his father commanded. “You surely can’t expect to demand respect when curled in like a meek peasant, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel lifted his head and stared lifelessly at the mirror in front of him. Elegant purple robing was being strung from his shoulders as he was dressed for the evening banquet. It was the preliminary event to his coming-of-age ball, but it was traditional for the kingdom of Baltimore to hold winter festivities. 

Unlike his prestigious party on the 19th of January, only a full moon cycle away, this dinner was within noble circles only. 

Which meant Nathaniel had no choice but to tolerate Riko Moriyama’s bitter, spoiled presence for hours on end, under his father’s watchful eye. How  _ thrilling. _

“Your majesty, your highness,” came a hesitant voice. “The head seamstress had to retire earlier this morning: She’s come down with the pox, and wouldn’t dare place our royal excellencies at risk.” The woman bowed deeply. “Allison Reynolds, her esteemed apprentice, will take care of all adjustments required.”

His father gave the young woman a scathing glare. “You’d best live up to that ‘esteemed’ prefix, dear.” 

Allison kept her chin high as she curtsied. The king’s eyes narrowed further. 

So this was the infamous Allison Reynolds, kneeling by the little podium that Nathaniel stood upon. It wasn’t long before his father decided that watching his son be fitted was beyond his realm of patience and departed swiftly. 

Other than the two servants that stood by the archway, Nathaniel and Allison were alone. 

“Be careful around the king, Miss Reynolds,” Nathaniel warned, gently. Andrew had openly criticised Allison for her melodramatics and materialistic nature, but his close friend Renee adored Allison. Nathaniel didn’t want her hurt. “He is easily angered.”

The surprised glance the servants gave one another didn’t bypass Nathaniel unnoticed.

“It is an honour to work for the king,” Allison replied stiffly.

“It is dangerous work,” Nathaniel countered. “The head seamstress must be truly unwell to send you into the viper pit.” 

“Perhaps.” Allison stood up, circling him. “But it was more my incurable curiosity. I made this cloak, after all.” She stood back and admired the way the garment fell from his shoulders. She finally looked at him, all blonde hair and grey eyes. Her skin was tanned and tough with laundry work, hours spent wringing fabrics in the harsh Baltimorean summers. “I wanted to know what kind of man our crown prince was. None of us even know what you look like. You have a shielded life.”

Shielded? From the outside world, perhaps. From pain and misery? Hardly. 

“There’s always more than what meets the eye,” Nathaniel said, slowly. 

She smiled: it wasn’t kind. “I know. I have new boots for you to don, your highness.”

“Please,” Nathaniel cut in before she could retrieve them from her basket of goods. “Call me—Neil.”

Allison gave him an appraising glance, before grinning: it was cat-like and mischievous. “Very well, Mr. Neil. Try these on for me, won’t you? I do believe they will go nicely with your eyes.”

*

Nathaniel was frightfully bored, but also frightfully anxious: it was the strange, contradictory emotions that compelled him to sit further away from Riko Moriyama, who liked to sit in as close of a proximity to the kings’ table as he could. Nathaniel instead situating himself amongst the heirs of the Moreau and Knox kingdoms. 

Kevin Day was frustratingly complacent under Riko’s thumb: having grown up alongside one another (Tetsuji, Riko’s uncle, had been the Regent of Kevin’s kingdom in the years after Queen Kayleigh’s death till the boy had turned into a man two years ago and reclaimed his title as king) the two were considerably closer, but it didn’t take a scholar to see how twisted the Moriyama son was. Still, it meant Kevin was up with Riko, a king amongst kings himself. 

“Surely your father will be displeased that you are spending time with us,” Prince Jeremy of Knox teased, jostling Nathaniel’s shoulder. 

“Whatever is necessary to convince my father not to promise me to Riko,” Nathaniel hissed, finger trailing around the rim of the wine chalice. 

“You are a Crown Prince,” Prince Jean of Moreau said, a small frown curling the corners of his lips. “He is not. It is  _ him  _ who should be betrothed to  _ you.”  _

“The Moriyamas are infinitely more powerful than the three of our kingdoms,” Knox said under his breath. “It is why we are to wed, Jean.”

Nathaniel blanched. “You—you are to be wed?”

Jeremy smiled like rays of sunshine, reaching out to cover Jean’s hand with his own. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Blush blossomed across Jean’s cheeks. “Though perhaps it would be best to keep it between the three of us, yes, Nate? Our parents don’t wish to anger King Kengo nor your father for forming stronger alliances without their discretion.”

“Of course,” Nathaniel said, distracted. “Was that the intention?”

They looked at each other, then to the small, silver-white scar that circled Nathaniel’s pinky finger where his father had cut it off and sewed it back on. 

“It is certainly an advantage,” Jean said, lowly. “But our customs believe in marriage for love and loyalty, not for political strength.”

Marrying for love. Even if the fact that Nathaniel would be married for the benefit of the kingdom wasn’t drilled into him from a child, love seemed to be such a foreign concept that Nathaniel couldn’t quite fathom what it would look like. 

For a moment he recalled the thick, strong fingers of Andrew’s hand interlocking with his own in the quiet, flickering light of an oil-lamp, but he pushed it from his mind as soon as it surfaced: he didn’t like thinking about his life as Neil Josten when trapped in this extravagant hell. 

The banquet dragged on until the small hours of the morning, when all the guests had retired to their quarters and Nathaniel was escorted back to his tower. His father brushed by him with a narrowed glare, to which Nathaniel could only assume he was in trouble and would be punished when it wasn’t so late. 

Alone in his chambers, he leaned against the stone windowsill and looked out over the sprawling town that surrounded the base of the palace’s hill. If he narrowed his eyes he could see the tin and thatched straw roofs of the Palmetto slums. 

What he wouldn’t give to be poor and free. 

Too tired for disillusionment and hopelessness, he carefully laid Allison’s cloak on the chair closest and fell into bed, thinking of silver wedding bands and permanence. 

*

It was a clear night, when the letter arrived: embossed in black ink, his name was inscribed across the front in pointed script. 

“King Kengo is dead,” His father had claimed this morning. “King Ichirou’s coronation will be within the week, and we are his honored guests. I will expect you to be ready by morning, Nathaniel. We will make the journey and be back in a fortnight to continue the preparations for your coming-of-age.”

Nathaniel had nodded sullenly, taking the letter back to his chambers. 

His fingers trembled as he opened it, unfolding its contents. It was beyond worse than he could have possibly conceived. 

_ My dearest Prince Nathaniel, _

_ I write to you in the wake of my father’s death. It was expected but sudden, and I am sure I will hear your condolences when I see you come a few days hence.  _

_ In light of such tragedies, I wish to provide my people with a beacon of hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, per say. Your father has formally bestowed upon me the right to ask for your hand in marriage. Our partnership will be strong and everlasting, and we will finally fortify the power that we, as Moriyamas and Wesninskis, have alongside one another. It is a blessed union indeed.  _

_ Your father had the brilliant idea that we would announce our engagement at the celebration of your 18th birthday, during the selection ceremony. I look forward to your presence by my side, husband-to-be, and am equally enthralled to announce it to your subjects. _

_ Yours, _

_ Prince Riko Moriyama. _

With shaking hands, Nathaniel threw the letter into the fire and watched the words melt, blotting the parchment till there was nothing but ink and ash. Pulling on Allison’s boots and his old cape, he scrambled out of his window and scurried as quickly as he could, away from the suffocating confines of his tower, his chambers, his life as Nathaniel. 

When Neil arrived at Eden’s tavern, it was bustling with life. He rounded the back and tucked himself away amongst the discarded crates: the sun was almost set, casting harsh shadows that loomed ominously around every corner. The blue wash of the twilight light and the glittering stars did nothing to ease the rapture that’d ensnared his heart. 

Andrew stepped outside with a light at the end of his pipe, taking a moment for peace and solitude. Neil had already scrambled halfway up the building, kicking a crate over to grab Andrew’s attention before disappearing into Andrew’s room. 

He was there in a matter of moments, locking the door behind him and coming to Neil’s aid. Neil’s entire body was trembling like that of an autumn leaf, held on by only the thinnest of fibres. 

“I—“ He gasped, clutching onto Andrew’s shoulders. “I cannot—I do not wish to—“

“Neil,” Andrew said, voice low. “ _ Neil.  _ You will blow a gasket like this: whatever is the matter?”

He couldn’t help himself: the soft scent of Andrew’s soap and the musk of tobacco and mead comforted Neil when he buried his head into the crook of Andrew’s shoulder. 

“My trip to Evermore will be early,” he whispered, clutching onto the soft fabric of the young man’s shirt. “I am repaying my parents’ debts. Once and for all.”

“How?”

He closed his eyes. “I’m  _ betrothed,  _ Andrew.” 

The man slowly stood back, taking Neil’s jaw in one hand. His eyes were molten fury. “You’re what?”

“I’m to be married to a merchant.” Neil leaned into Andrew’s palm. “I came as soon as I heard—I don’t want to be wed in the spring.” He held onto Andrew’s shoulders. “Don’t let me  _ go.”  _

“Hush,” Andrew said, holding Neil close. “It will be alright.” His lips moved over Neil’s hair, his ear, the corner of his jaw as they rocked together. “It will be alright.”

It wouldn’t, but Neil didn’t care. He just wanted Andrew to hold him, and never let go. 

*

Evermore’s winters were frightfully dreadful. Cold and lifeless, the mountains stared at Nathaniel as great monsters did to ants: with gleeful indifference. Nathaniel loathed almost everything about Evermore, its royal family not spared from his distaste. 

Riko was there to greet him as soon as he stepped out of the carriage. He took Nathaniel by the elbow forcefully and escorted him through every corridor. Nathaniel kept his mouth shut. Only through teeth bitten into the tip of his tongue did he refrain from speaking his mind. He would have adored to reprimand Riko’s casual derogatory nature, the way he treated King Kevin Day as a pet.

The late king of Moriyama was buried and his passage into the afterlife blessed, and Nathaniel almost wished it was him being buried into the ground. Anything to escape this hellish existence he had curated for himself. 

Ichirou’s coronation was the next day. He stood tall and regal on the dais as the crown was placed on his head, knights stationed around the room’s edge. The security was useless: there wasn’t anyone in the region strong enough to survive an attack on the new Moriyama king. Nathaniel sat between Kevin and Riko: his betrothed was stiff with jealousy, whilst Kevin mindlessly traced the Day crest that was embroidered into his sleeve. 

“Don’t you think I should be king, Nathaniel, dear?” Riko had asked, absently, as he escorted Nathaniel back to his chambers. 

Nathaniel said nothing. Riko assumed that silence denoted agreement, so he smiled cruelly and pressed a searing kiss against the curve of Nathaniel’s cheekbone as a parting gift. 

Nathaniel went to sleep later than he should have, spending a half hour at the basin in a poor attempt to scrub his cheek clean of Moriyama’s kiss. He curled up in his sheets and tried to ignore the pain in his chest. 

“We’ll see each other soon,” Riko promised, when Nathaniel clambered into his carriage to depart from the Moriyama castle the next morning. “You will be eighteen in five days, my Nathaniel. I will be there to celebrate.”

Nathaniel was not looking forward to it, merely ducking his head and situating himself within the confines of the carriage to avoid Riko’s gaze. His father rode separately, which meant Nathaniel could curl his hands into fists and imagine all the ways he could inconspicuously get rid of Riko prior to their wedding. Perhaps a ghastly fall from the palace window? Or a poisoned chalice of wine? Maybe he could orchestrate a loose carriage wheel, or a startled horse. 

He caught himself before his methods could dissolve into something too close to his father’s cruelty. He didn’t wish to marry the Moriyama son, but he would never be the man his father was. A line had to be drawn somewhere. 

Frustrated and alone, Nathaniel watched the scenery pass by him, silent and lifeless as they journeyed back to Baltimore. 

After almost three days of travel they arrived home, Nathaniel hopping out of the carriage and ensuring he was presentable before climbing the palace stairs on his father’s heels. 

The palace staff were there to greet them, bowed on one knee as they passed. The entrance hall was grand and perfectly polished for their return home. Nathaniel had expected a dismissal, but it never came: his father continued to march onwards. Nathaniel dutifully followed, heart galloping anxiously within the confines of his chest.

“Nathaniel,” his father called, inclining his head as they entered the throne room. “Junior.” 

Nathaniel winced. He was in trouble. A moment in time stretched endlessly as the king came to a stand-still. Nathaniel counted years of terse silence, hands shaking. 

“Your melancholy was palpable,” Nathan said, looking to his throne with his fingers laced behind his back. Queen Mary’s chair still sat beside his golden chair, regal and polished, like he mourned her. Like he hadn’t murdered her out of cold blood. “Do you mean to make a mockery of me, Nathaniel?” 

“No, sir,” Nathaniel whispered. 

His father moved faster than Nathaniel could comprehend: his throat was encased in the skeletal fingers, his father more a reaper than a man. He couldn’t breathe.

“You will choose Riko as your partner at the celebratory ball,” he hissed. “And you will let him bed you. Then you will understand true subordination: Riko is anxious to teach it to you, and I am anxious to see you break. No son of mine will continue to wallow and mope. You are a miserable embarrassment to our lineage. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel wheezed. 

“You have too much of your mother in you,” he snarled, stood too close, too tall, too strong. “Your quiet rebellion ends here, Nathaniel. Do you understand? You are  _ my  _ son, and you will learn your place. Kneel.”

Nathaniel collapsed to the floor, nails clawing the lush rug beneath him. His father grabbed his hair and forced Nathaniel to look at him. 

“Undress,” he commanded. 

Nathaniel hated the wreckage that his father had ravaged across his skin: there were still servants stood along the walls, his father’s favoured nights by the doors if Nathaniel tried to flee. He shook his head valiantly, refusing to undress and expose himself. 

King Nathan Wesninski didn’t take no for an answer: Nathaniel had learned that from a young age, but the lesson had never truly stuck. His father unsheathed a knife from his sleeve and sliced the clothing from Nathaniel’s frame. 

Only his trousers and Allison’s boots remained, his fair and foully scarred skin displayed to all that looked. His father made a scathing sound and unwound the silver-laced leather that secured his trousers. 

“Move and you’ll earn five more,” his father warned. Nathaniel bowed his head. 

The first lash was always the worst. He curled his hands into fists and closed his eyes, and wished that whoever was watching over him would unleash this pain against his father tenfold. 

It was his burden as prince, he supposed. To suffer. 

*

Nathaniel laid on his stomach as the sun slowly peered through the nearest window, heralding a new day. It was four days until the eighteenth anniversary of his birth. Four days until Riko proclaimed their engagement to the entire town of Baltimore. 

He had such little time left: such a small window of freedom. And he could barely move. 

A small knock sounded on the main door of his chamber. He tried to lift his head and found himself too weak to do so, his voice thin as he croaked, “Come in.”

“Oh, Nathaniel,” a familiar voice hissed. “Oh, what has that cruel man done to you?”

“Allison,” Nathaniel said, startled as he watched the blonde seamstress kneel by his bed and take his hand in hers. “Allison, what are you doing here?”

“I demanded that you had another fitting for your Bildungsroman finery before the day,” she murmured. “But my mentor received correspondence that you were very unwell. I brought the best apothecary in town. What has that wicked fiend  _ done  _ to you?”

“Allison,” came an unfamiliar voice. “You must be careful. Out of the way: I must attend to him immediately. Aaron, quickly.”

Nathaniel blinked uncomprehendingly as a new figure stood in his line of sight. She had delicate braids of mousy-blonde hair and warm brown eyes that were crinkled with horror as she surveyed the lashings across his back. Her fingers were warm as they circled Nathaniel’s wrist. 

“Your highness,” She said. “I am Abigail Wymack, the town’s apothecary. This is my assistant, Aaron Minyard. Will you let us take care of you?”

Aaron? Aaron  _ Minyard?  _ Nathaniel made a garbled noise and squeezed his eyes closed. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Andrew’s doppelganger, not when he missed the man so fiercely that his chest ached at the mere thought of him. He nodded weakly, and Abby gently brushed the hair away from his forehead. 

They held cold compresses to his overheated skin as they cleaned the welts across his back, applying soothing balms and neatly stitching closed the worst of his gashes. Nathaniel found it easier to breathe as they continued, and Allison told him fantastical stories of dragons and warlocks with their fingers intertwined. He had not anticipated the seamstress to care so deeply for him, but he was glad. 

“You must rest, Prince Nathaniel,” Abby urged. “I shall instruct your attending servants how to apply the healing salves and ointments to ease your pain, but you shouldn’t rise from your bed today, my lord.”

“I am not—“ Nathaniel coughed gently. “I am not your lord, yet.”

“You will be.” 

“Aaron,” Nathaniel whispered, against his better judgement. “Aaron, tell your brother I am sorry. Tell Andrew I am sorry.” 

There was silence. 

“Of course, your highness,” Aaron said, confusion evident in his tone. 

Allison bent over to give him a rushed kiss on the forehead before they departed. 

Nathaniel was left alone.

*

It wasn’t until the eve of his birthday that Nathaniel felt well enough to sneak out of his window: the descent to the ground was slow and painful and he breathed heavily through his nose. He crept across the grounds and escaped via his customary route, but it took much longer than usual. 

As he walked down the hillside, the fresh grass beneath his boots, he let every facet of Nathaniel Wesninski peel back until all that was left was Neil. It was a relief: he let the clean winter air curl across the bridge of his nose and comb through his hair as he distanced himself from the nightmares that occured within the Wesninski castle and let himself breathe.

When he arrived at the precipice of the town, he pulled up his hood. It was bittersweet, walking the dark alleyways of his town. This would be the last time he was allowed to taste this liberation, and he savoured it with every fibre of his being. 

He finally arrived at Eden’s. The tavern was quiet at this time of night, the bowed-head horses in the stable nickering and snuffing in their sleep. Neil took his time climbing up the hay bales, and even longer edging his way across the thatched roof till he arrived to the precipice of Andrew’s window. 

He held his breath and slipped inside.

Andrew was sat in front of his fire, stoking the smouldering logs with a familiar fire poker. He always claimed to lack any emotional depth, but he was truly sentimental: every gift Neil had ever given was positioned above the mantel, the scarf wound around his neck. 

“Andrew,” he whispered, fingers aching to knot themselves in the soft fabric of his clothing. 

Andrew was stood in front of him within a fraction of a second, fingers digging into Neil’s arms. 

“Neil,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Neil, where  _ were  _ you?”

“I missed you,” Neil murmured, letting his fingers come up to curl across Andrew’s jaw, around his neck. “Andrew, I—this is the last time I will see you. Tomorrow he will announce our marriage and take me to bed.”

Fury spasmed across Andrew’s features. “I will kill him.” 

“You don’t even know who it is,” Neil brushed the hair out of Andrew’s eyes, endlessly melancholic. “And you know that I cannot tell you.”

“I know,” Andrew whispered, hands brushing over Neil’s lower back. He winced as pain crawled up his spine but Andrew took his hands away immediately, resting them instead on Neil’s hips to pull him closer. It was close enough Neil could whisper into Andrew’s ear.

“If I come to the ball tomorrow,” he murmured, watching the way the fire glittered in Andrew’s golden gaze. “What mask will you wear? I will find you.”

“Allison has crafted something ridiculous,” Andrew muttered. “Themed around the elk.”

“Fiercely protective,” Neil smiled. “Fitting.” 

Andrew pressed a finger against Neil’s lips to quiet him, before letting his finger trail along his jaw and down his neck, enraptured as he watched Neil lean closer. 

“Let’s pretend,” Neil whispered. “Just for one night. Let’s pretend this isn’t our last.”

“Yes or no?” Andrew inquired, desperate for solace and intimacy just like Neil. Neil buried his face in the soft crook of Andrew’s neck, letting a shudder run from his toes to his fingers. “I will not take this from you if you aren’t willing, Neil. I will not be like them. Yes or no?” 

“Yes,” Neil whispered. “I give this to you freely. Take it. Hold it. Protect it. It is yours.” 

Andrew took Neil by the wrists and lead him to his bed, where he helped Neil kneel atop of the mattress, taking his jaw between his hands and cradling Neil’s head with his lips against Neil’s cheekbone. Two broken men, refusing to admit defeat. Neil cared for Andrew so fiercely that it consumed his entire being. 

“Be gentle,” Neil whispered. “I’ve been hurt.” 

“I am not a gentle creature,” Andrew insisted, unlacing Neil’s coat as he let Neil’s fingers caress under his cotton blouse. 

“You can be. I know you can.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss under Andrew’s jaw. “You are not what they tried to make you into. You are not a monster.” 

Andrew closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together, the air between them absent of anything but desperation. 

“I trust you,” Neil said, leaning closer. 

“And I you,” Andrew returned, meeting him in the middle. 

Neil let himself be lost to the smell of tobacco and laundered sheets. The moon shone, bright and clear through the open window, the smell of winter roses and holly and wood-fire wafting throughout the room. When there was only skin and calloused hands and shuddering gasps, Neil forgot who he was, forgot who he was destined to be, abandoned every pretence and cruel memory. 

He just was. They just  _ were. _ Together. A prince and a pauper, just the same.

*

“Oh, Junior!” his nightmare crowed, rapping on his door. 

Nathaniel stared blearily at the canopy over his bed. He’d arrived back at the chambers only an hour before sunrise, having fallen asleep on Andrew’s chest for longer than he should have. 

Lady Malcom, Lola Malcom, had arrived for the celebrations that morning and Nathaniel knew he wouldn’t be permitted to sleep whilst she was here. It was rumoured that Nathan desired her as his new Queen, but his son had to be dealt with first. 

He pulled himself up from his bed and yanked on a robe, tying it around his waist before greeting the woman at the door. 

She was just as dastardly as he recalled, with her hair like dried blood and her eyes darker than shadows. Her nails were claw-like where they caressed his cheek .

“Aren’t you just the sweetest?” she crooned, tilting his head from side to side. “Junior is all grown! Eighteen today. Isn’t it exciting?”

His birthday was the day of his damnation. Nathaniel said nothing. 

“Ah,” the lady laughed. “Your father wrote to me about your learned obedience. I won’t say I missed your spitfire tongue, lest I irk your father, but it was most entertaining when he hurt you and you squealed.” She pressed a sickly kiss to his cheek, where Andrew had gently caressed and whispered loving promises against his skin just a few hours prior. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel said stiffly, stepping back and closing the door in her face. Her laugh echoed down the hall as she wafted away, leaving him to dress himself for breakfast. 

He and his father sat at opposite ends of the long table: Lola sat by his father’s side, her brother Lord Romero Malcom in the middle. Nathaniel ate slowly, quietly, head bowed and expression stoic. In truth he felt vibrant and languid from last night, the shadow of Andrew’s touch on Neil’s skin.

An elk, with rigid antlers and strong unbeknownst and unanticipated. It was incredibly suited to Andrew. To  _ his  _ Andrew. He wondered if Andrew knew, if Aaron had told him that Prince Nathaniel insisted he was sorry, if he’d connected the pieces of Neil’s intricate puzzle and landed on the correct assumption. 

“Isn’t that so, Nathaniel?”

Nathaniel’s gaze snapped up, looking to where Lola leered at him from the opposite end of the table. He wished he could fling his butterknife into her eye. He knew his aim was accurate enough. “Pardon?”

“I was just expressing my excitement for tonight.” She grinned. “You will select a dancing partner, will you not?” 

Nathan’s gaze darkened. Nathaniel ducked his head. 

“Yes, I will,” he murmured. 

“How delightful.” 

“Splendid,” Romero agreed. 

Breakfast was silent otherwise, but for Lola’s insolent nattering. When Nathaniel was finally dismissed, he was directed to his chambers where his wounds were redressed after he was thoroughly bathed. Allison arrived at the precipice of noon, assisted by a young woman by the name of Marissa. 

“You have truly overtaken your mentor’s position as the royal seamstress, it seems,” he snarked, before he could hold his tongue. 

The pity in Allison’s eyes dissolved into good-spirited jest. “I won’t insist that I’m glad for her illness, but one shouldn’t take success lightly.”

“Of course not.” Nathaniel let her guide him to a stool in front of his vanity. “I should’ve known you were as cunning as you are beautiful, Allison.”

“I could very much so say the same, your highness.” She flicked his ear. Marissa gasped. “Oh, quiet, Marissa. We are friends.” 

_ We are?  _ Nathaniel thought, hopeful.

“Now,” Allison said, as she positioned Marissa to take care of Nathaniel’s hair. “I have changed a few things in light of my new position as head seamstress. It will be a masquerade ball to remember, so how could I possibly settle with the plain costuming that my mentor had initially allowed? I shan’t let such an opportunity go to waste, my good prince. I do believe you will be the most splendidly dressed attendee, as it should be. It is your birthday, after all.”

It took a long while but Nathaniel found that he did not mind. He enjoyed Allison’s company thoroughly: she told him about Matthew and Danielle’s new son and lamented over the new uniforms she sewed for the orphaned children of Miss Walker’s school, and waxed lyrical about Miss Walker herself. 

“When will you propose, then?” Nathaniel enquired, when Marissa had left Allison alone to dress Nathaniel herself. 

“Propose!” Allison stilled momentarily. “Why, how will I propose when I am unsure if she even returns my affections?”

“You should ask her to the ball,” Nathaniel said absently. “What I wouldn’t do to attend the ball with the man that I wish to.”

“There’s a man?” Allison inquired, pinching Nathaniel’s cheeks with her fingers. “My, Prince Nathaniel, why didn’t you say so?” 

“It is a secret,” he hissed. “I am betrothed. You mustn’t say a  _ thing,  _ Allison.”

“A royal’s secret is a secret of mine,” she vowed. “But you must tell me all about him. Is he beautiful? Broad-shouldered? Kind?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel sighed, recalling the way Andrew had held him to his chest and rocked with him, the strength that wrapped around his shoulders and arms from hours of lugging hay bales and barrels of hops, the careful hands that could shatter a glass and then piece it back together.

“I’m sure if you poisoned your betrothed, no one would mind.” The glitter in her eye told Nathaniel she knew who it was. 

“I won’t be like my father,” he muttered. “Even if I wish I could.” 

“Like your father, how?” Allison was carefully arranging his bandages to avoid hurting him as she buttoned up his ornately embroidered jacket. 

“You don’t believe that my mother, healthy and vibrant, merely passed away, did you?” Nathaniel said derisively. “He poisoned her wine, her tea. She was dead within the week.”

Allison stilled. “I did not know that. Your father’s cruelty knows no bounds.”

Nathaniel sighed, letting his head fall forward. “Yes. And no one knows that more honestly than I.”

Allison finally pinned the cloak to his shoulders, a glorious tapestry of the finest craftsmanship. “You are a better man than your father, Prince Nathaniel. Should he lay a finger on you, tonight, I will ensure that he does not survive it.” She took his jaw in her vigilant fingers and forced him to look at her. “Do you understand? You are the future king. You are boundlessly more favoured—or you will be, when the people see who you are. Tonight is  _ your  _ night. You should take the arm of the man you want to, and you should live and breathe as you will when you are king: fearlessly, stubbornly and valiantly.”

“He will kill me,” Nathaniel whispered. 

“He will not,” she promised. “He will not touch you, nor those you love. He cannot, not without retribution.”

She stood away from him and tilted the mirror towards him. He inhaled softly, looking at the garments she had sewn so carefully for him. He was a fox, a kitsune, a vixen: the cloak wove a narrative of nine tails, with gorgeous golden threads and encrusted rubies. His garments were of the same auburn as his hair, trimmed with black and gold. 

She came forward and slid the mask over his hair: It covered his eyes and streamlined his nose, the face of the fox mask soft to the touch. It was truly beautiful. Beautiful, defiant and majestic. 

He felt like a king. 

“Thank you, Allison.”

She bowed deeply. “Anything for you, your majesty.” Her grin lit a fire in his chest, unravelling his tightly-wound obedience from the seams. Offering her arm, she helped him off the podium. “I will quickly dress and accompany you to the throne room: The hall will be ready for your arrival, my king.”

“You are dangerous,” Nathaniel insisted, letting her confidence refresh him anew. 

Her eyes glinted. “In that we are alike, Nathaniel Wesninski.” 

“Please,” he insisted. “Call me Neil.”

*

Once upon a time, there was a young prince who understood suffering perhaps too acutely for someone of his status. He wore it across his back like you did a cloak: a necessary, extraneous garment that perhaps weighed a little more than it was worth. 

Stood atop of the broad, marble staircase that descended into the throws of his people—yes,  _ his  _ people—he felt strangely at home. 

His father stood by his side, tall and proud. Nathaniel would knock that crown from his head and damn him for all that he’d put his son and his people through. First he had taken their wealth, then he had taken their trust, and then he’d killed their queen. 

Prince Nathaniel was grown, now. It was the eve of January 19th, the exact moment of his birth eighteen years ago. 

His father should have guessed that Nathaniel would be the catalyst of his ruination from the moment he was born. The thought made him smile. 

“My son, Prince Nathaniel,” the king announced. 

“Kneel for your future king!” crowed Lady Malcolm, announcing her gracious presence as she came to stand by Nathaniel’s side. Her mask was a twisted form, like the gnarled roots of an old tree, rotten and overbearing.

Nathaniel watched as every man, woman and child took to one knee, their heads bowed. 

“Rise,” Nathan commanded. “For now my son will take his first dance as my Crown Prince, opening the ceremony.”

Nathaniel began his slow descent of the stairs, the cloak at his shoulders fanning out across the stairs. He was a man, now. He should make his own decisions, and he should trust that his instinct ran true. 

He looked over his shoulder as he reached the bottom of the staircase. His father gave a slow, affirming nod.

Allison was right. There  _ was  _ nothing his father could do to stop him. 

When he turned around, Riko Moriyama was stood before him. His raven’s mask matched the sinister slant to his glare, the silken suit exuding wealth and grandeur. Riko’s arm lifted slightly, demanding that Nathaniel take his side, but Nathaniel ignored him. 

It caused a swell of glee in his chest as Riko was forced to step out of Nathaniel’s way, rejected and alone. Nathaniel didn’t look at him: instead, his eyes scoured the hall for a familiar figure. 

In that fairytale-esque manner, the crowd seemed to diverge right down the centre. The man of Nathaniel’s heart was stood down the end of an attentive corridor, turning to look at him. His mask had glorious, all twisting antlers and slithers of blue and silver: around his neck he wore a well-loved woollen scarf, an odd choice for the Prince’s Bildungsroman Ball. The grey weavings of the scarf complimented the outside perfectly, Nathaniel noted, as he approached the man. 

Nathaniel seemed to have gotten his attention only when he was stood right before him, bowing his head and offering his arm. “May I have this dance?” 

The stranger, who was no stranger at all, reflected Nathaniel’s stance and took his arm. With their heads bowed together, he said: “I give it to you freely.”

Nathaniel almost grinned. He could feel the warmth of Andrew’s fingertips through the soft fabric of his clothes as the music began: it was almost enough to drown out the baffled murmurings of the crowd, wondering why on earth the prince of Baltimore had elected such an eccentric partner: a tavern host from the Palmetto slums, a criminal, a rapscallion nonetheless. 

Nathaniel grinned softly. His father would be  _ fuming.  _

“I thought we agreed upon one last night,” Andrew murmured. 

“Such is fate,” Nathaniel agreed. “When—when did you suspect?”

“Aaron’s curious message had me perplexed,” Andrew admitted. “I do wish you had simply given me the truth, Prince Nathaniel.” 

“Don’t,” he whispered. “That name is tarnished with pain and pretences. Call me Neil: it is who I wish I could be.”

“What is stopping you?” Andrew demanded, holding tighter onto Neil as they spun around. The music swelled around them.

“Only the man who has taken everything from me and more,” Neil leaned their foreheads together. 

“He hasn’t taken me,” Andrew rebutted. 

Neil smiled. “No. But he will try.” 

“Let him,” the elk murmured. “I will not give in without a fight.”

Come, Nathan Wesninski did. Neil spent the evening spinning around with Andrew, or with Allison and her Miss Walker. Jeremy and Jean and Kevin came and mingled with the peasant folk whilst Riko remained estranged. Neil laughed as they all took hands and danced the circle jig, spinning faster and faster till the ballroom was simply a blur of colour and shapes. It was well past midnight when the festivities were deemed finished, but Neil took Andrew’s wrist and snuck him into a small alcove, through which they escaped via a small oak door. The door lead to a servant’s corridor, through which they ran as they shed their masks and heaviest garments. 

Neil’s laugh echoed off the stone walls as he dragged Andrew alongside him, feeling feather-light and free. Andrew’s quiet smile was nothing short of mythical, like the man himself. Neil felt like a pair of stars, hurtling across the night sky with nothing in mind but a trajectory and glimmering hope. 

They arrived to Neil’s quarters and Neil guided Andrew to the window’s edge. 

“Climb down, avoid the roses and follow the willow trees to the palace’s walls,” Neil whispered. “I have hidden a rope by the pond: it is how I escaped to see you.” 

Andrew took Neil’s jaw in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. “I shan’t leave you again. Not if I have the choice.”

“Kiss me,” Neil answered, desperate. 

Andrew obliged. 

It was then that the doors to his chambers burst forthright, revealing Nathan Wesninski in all his unfathomable anger, with Riko Moriyama in tow. Neil shouldered in front of Andrew, facing his father eye-to-eye.

“How  _ dare  _ you,” Nathan snarled. “After all I have done for you. After all I have given you. How dare you choose a peasant over your duty!” 

“All you have given me are the scars and wounds across my back,” Neil said, calmly. “You are no father of mine.”

“Touch him and I will have your skin hung from the flags atop the castle turrets,” Andrew warned, an arm out in front of Neil’s chest. 

“You, my son's nameless whore, threaten me? Your king ?” Nathan raged, fury contorting his features into something horrible and twisted. It was sickening: Neil grabbed onto the lapels of Andrew’s garments, fearful for the man’s safety. 

“Your son is more of a king then you ever were,” Andrew said calmly. With a quick flick of his wrist, the silver blade he kept hidden in his sleeve was freed: it took two broad strides for Andrew to shove the blade through the king’s chest, angled perfectly between the man’s ribs to penetrate his heart. He yanked the blade out just as swiftly, watching as Nathan dropped to his knees, sliding to the ground. 

“No!” Riko screamed, falling to his knees by Nathan’s body. “Treason!  _ Treason!”  _

“How could you commit such a heinous act, Prince Riko of Moriyama?” Andrew said, icily, as he placed the weapon by Nathan’s side. Neil understood what he had to do. “You have murdered your ally. Your betrothed’s father.” 

“Guards!” Neil called, rushing to the doors of his chambers. “Knights, quickly! My father has been murdered!”

“What?” Riko cried out, hands covered in blood from where he had clutched Nathan’s expired remains. “But—No! How could you, Nathaniel?” 

Knights rushed through in a cacophony of yelling and chaos and grabbed Riko by his arms, lifting him to his knees as he screamed in defiance. 

“Riko Moriyama,” Neil said, taking Andrew’s hand in his. “You have committed the highest act of treason and will be executed, come sunrise. Take him away at once.” 

“Of course, King Nathaniel,” the knight said, bowing his head. 

“King Neil,” he corrected. “It will be King Neil.” 

Beside him, Andrew smiled. 

*

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed!!!!! because i enjoyed writing it lol
> 
> p.s. thank u to @foxy-exy (tumblr) for betaeing for me, you're doin god's work 
> 
> p.p.s. i wrote a fic in the 2019 aftg remix, go check it out!!!!!!!! they're anonymous rn but if you can guess which one i wrote by november 3rd i'll write u a 1k fic :ppp


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